


A Feast of Foods

by Silento



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Feasting, Gen, Humor, Minor spoilers: Book 3, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 13:31:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silento/pseuds/Silento
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Game of Thrones, you wine or you dine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Feast of Foods

** JON **

Jon Snow flexed his sword hand under his cloak, stamping his feet to ward off the cold. His legs ached. They had been marching for three days now, and all the horses were dead. All of them. Because it was _really_ cold. The company's rations were running low as well. Jon had broken his fast on only a small sliver of garlic sausage and a raw onion. And a fresh bun, filled with raisins, pine nuts, and apple. With butter. And half a duck. And a bowl of lamb stew, simmered in ale and wild herbs.

 

That last had been interrupted by a wildling ambush, which had rudely disrupted their meal before it had cooked the recommended four to six hours. Jon had grabbed a carrot as they fled, and counted himself lucky. Afterwards, he had been so hungry he could have eaten a horse---and had, in fact: a whole flank from one of the downed garrons.

 

Jon pulled his cloak tighter around him. Yes, he wasn't sure whether the gods would see fit to freeze or starve them to death first. But his money was on starve.

 

** ARYA **

On the road she had been a wolf, but here, freshly scrubbed and bereft of sword, scullery maid to Balthor Quattrayne, she was a mouse again. Balthor was watching her with his watery rat's eyes. He was called The Boil, but not to his face, which had a boil on it and was horrible to look at.

 

"Hurry up with that stew, Ayra," said Balthor, boxing her about the ears. She was Ayra Krats here, a nobody.

 

Eyes downturned, she went to fetch the stew, and was carrying it over to The Boil when she was struck by a sudden idea. She gestured to Gendry, on the other side of the kitchen, and hoped he noticed. Arya picked up the pot of stew, and threw it, still fire-hot, in Balthor's face.  
  
The Boil screamed, and Gendry was up in a flash, taking out sentries with a ladle. Lannister guards stormed the room, but Arya was fast as a water dancer. She got one in the eye with a crusty baguette, and eviscerated another with a floury jam bun. Glass jars of delicious compote rained from the ceiling, and Lannisters moaned and groaned and died.

 

The kitchen was in shambles. Arya flicked a morsel of stew off her cheek. “ _Valar morghulis_.” The smell of blood blended with the smell of rich leek and butter sauce.

 

** BRAN **

Bran shuddered, and buried himself under his threadbare blanket. The kitchen that he, Hodor, and the Reeds had made camp in was long abandoned, its sinking cobblestone floors and crumbling walls now home to spiders and rats instead of the Night's Watchmen who had once cooked here. Still, Bran felt uneasy. He remembered the stories Old Nan had told him of Castle Boycorpse. Of Old Lord Fletchmonte, who, sent mad with Mummer's Palsy, had cooked all his page boys into a rich honey-and-nut pudding with thickly whipped crème fra _î_ che.

 

He crawled on his good limbs towards Meera, who was sat in the centre of the room roasting a yam on her frogging trident.  
  
"Meera, I can't sleep. Tell us a story," he wheedled.

  
"Hodor," Hodor agreed.

 

Meera grinned. "Do you Northmen have the tale of Old Lord Fletchmonte, who, sent mad with Mummer's Palsy, cooked all of his page boys into a---"  
  
"Yes, yes!" Bran said quickly, alarmed. "Perhaps a different story."

 

The older girl considered. "Then, the tale of Kevynne Swanthroat, the bard who bedded the queen, and was turned by the gods into a hot fresh apple pie, glazed in honey? Or maybe that of Jostone the Clever, who was raised by wolves and learned to cook rats in a steaming bouillabaisse?"  
  
"That sounds good," Bran agreed. As Meera's soothing voice related the legend of Jostone, he slipped his boy skin and _reached_ for his wolf skin. With good timing, too: Summer had just downed an aurochs.

****

** TYRION **

He had foregone a second supper in order to quaff another tankard of mead. His fifth of the evening, but he was barely feeling the effects. Drink was one of the few pleasures afforded him, dwarf that he was, as well as reading, whoring, and spending absolutely ludicrous amounts of coin. Tyrion partook of all of these, liberally. But he would have to be drunker still to face his father and sister.  
  
"Sansa," he addressed his lady wife, "fetch me that bottle of Dornish spiced wine."  
  
Sansa blinked her blue eyes at him, the eyes of a Tully. "Do you think it wise, my lord? I have a small tummy, and you have drunk all the mead, and a flagon of ale besides. And there were those mimosas at lunch, and the ale, and that queer drink from the Summer Isles..."  
  
" _Kahlua_." Tyrion rubbed the place where his nose had been. "Child, I may be a dwarf, but I can still hold my liquor. And I shall have to be drunker still---"  
  
"---in order to face your father and sister, yes. You already said that in the narration." Sansa blushed, realizing her imprudence. "Forgive me, milord."

 

"Tyrion," said Tyrion. "Perhaps this is folly, as you say. Come, Sansa, I'll show you a drink of my own devising. Mint, iced rum from the North, and Highgarden cider mulled with crushed peppers. I call it A Shot of Ice and Fire..."

 

** DAENERYS **

Ser Barristan had considered the name of the tavern a good omen, but Dany was beginning to have her doubts about this "Denny's". They had been seated for forty-five minutes, and still their order had not come. Her _Kos_ had grown restless, and were fidgeting with their curved _Arrakhs_. Well they might, for it was terribly hot, and she was languishing even in the loose purple gown that bared both breasts, as was the fashion in Khabaqqarl.

 

The simpering master of the house shuffled up to the table where she, Jorah, Barristan Selmy, and her dragons were seated. "Would milady care for a glass of iced water, infused with lemon?" A white smile blazed from beneath his oiled mustachios, but she could see sweat running down his white shirt. "Chad", his nametag read, but Dany pretended not to notice. She did not yet want to reveal that she could read Valyrian.

 

Daenerys returned his smile, cooly. "Thank you ser, but we have had enough water to quench the thirst of my whole _Khalassar_. But tell me, when shall you deliver our sweet waffles with cream, our fast-breaking burritos, and the steak and eggs I requested almost an hour ago?"  
  
"Ah, that, milady..." Chad rubbed his hands together. "It is, ah, difficult. The kitchens... they are running low on meats... it could be another hour."  
  
"Another _hour_?" Fire blazed in Daenerys's eyes as she rose. "Drogon! Rhaegal! Viserion! _Dracarys_."

 

Her dragons darted up from beneath the table, fire blazing from their mouths. Chad's eyes widened, and he tried to scream, but it was too late, he was caught in the blast. His intestines sizzled as deliciously as the breakfast sausages they had been promised. Her bloodriders joined in the destruction of the restaurant, and soon all was smashed and ablaze.  
  
"Khaleesi?" Her bear was beside her. "Are you sure this is quite wise? The insult was slight."  
  
"You question my wisdom, Jorah?" She drew herself up. "I am no mere _girl_ , unschooled in the art of war. I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the Unburned, Mother of Dragons! And I shall take my steak with fire and blood!"

 

** GEORGE **

George R.R. Martin sighed, leaning away from the keyboard. He checked his computer clock. Two in the morning! Half a fortnight's work and over seven hundred pages, and he was still no closer to the conquest of Westeros than when he had started all those years ago.

 

Plus he was really hungry.

 

George pushed himself back from his work desk and stretched. Perhaps it was time to break his fast, he thought, as he made his way down to the refrigerator. After all, being an author was thirsty work, and one is less distracted when writing with a bowl of cornchips and a flagon of Pabst. It is known.


End file.
